


A Variable Star

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Altered Mental States, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Established Relationship, Fal-tor-pan, Implied Relationships, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Post-Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:52:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Spock survives the fal-tor-pan and returns to Earth with Jim. They live together on Earth, so everything should be fine now.(Everything is wrong, and no one is happy.)





	A Variable Star

Spock's lectures run from two to four-fifteen on Thursdays. After working on his own grading and paperwork Jim likes to swing by the Vulcan's classroom, and usually the pair will go for a leisurely walk around the Academy grounds before taking an early dinner.

Today when he arrives Spock is talking to a young Deltan student. The Vulcan's hands are folded delicately behind his back as he speaks; Jim smiles and pauses by the doorway to watch him.

“Ethically speaking,” Spock is saying, “The question you are posing is worthy of consideration – however, Starfleet protocol is quite clear.”

“Sir, the Enterprise herself has intervened when a culture's customs endangered the lives of their people - “

Jim raises his eyebrows.

“But who is to decide what constitutes an acceptable cultural tradition, Cadet, and what constitutes oppression or mass-hysteria?”

“Any culture that needlessly endangers their people – any culture including ritualistic death – of course that's wrong. Like the example today in class.”

“The example from class is one isolated incident. My own people send our children into the desert when we are but seven years old – some people die from the experience, but it is considered a necessary trial into adulthood for all of those who are capable. Do you believe that the Vulcan people require some benevolent intervention, Cadet?”

“I – you - “ the Deltan looks baffled. “ - But why would you do that?” he finally demands.

“Because we decided that our traditions were worth preserving. And it is also the opinion of my people that a Vulcan of seven should be quite capable of making the choice to complete his or her own journey.”

The Deltan is shaking his head.

“You disagree?”

“I... don't understand, Sir.”

“Many do not. But the Federation does not intervene in this matter, just as they do not intervene in the First Hunts of the Caitians or the Ice-Sinkings common in the Northern hemisphere of Andor. I would have you consider this when you think of the Prime Directive, Cadet, and the possibility of intervening with a culture. There is nothing more important than context.”

The student thanks Spock but still looks troubled when he leaves. Kirk strolls up with a teasing smile. “Interesting how you didn't tell him about a little Vulcan who took his kas-wan a year early?”

“That was not relevant to the conversation, Jim,” says Spock tartly.

“Of course not,” Jim agrees. “Are you ready?”

The San-Francisco sun is still high enough that even Spock is relatively comfortable. Kirk, by contrast, has worked up a light sweat across his brow by the time they've circled around to the linguistic buildings. Students smile and wave as they pass – or turn away, depending upon the grades of the person in question.

“We should go to the park tonight,” Jim says suddenly. In the Golden Gate Park the cherry trees within the Japanese Tea Garden will be beautiful and pink; they will shed their leaves in a month or two with the advent of winter. Spock likes to sit under their branches, under the heavy shade and sweet scent of these leaves, and Jim never tires of reading there.

He thinks of enumerating these points; but either Spock knows him too well, or he just appreciates the idea of the outing, too. “That sounds agreeable.”

“Captain Spock?”

Lieutenant-Commander Morston teaches several lower-level computer-science courses. He nods in a spare greeting to Jim. “ - Admiral. Captain, did you get my message about the course tomorrow...?“

Spock is nodding along to the Lieutenant-Commander's questions when suddenly Jim sees it.

His posture becomes stiff. A lot of people would say that Spock is perfectly composed, perfectly unemotional at the best of times. But Jim can see the difference. His shoulders tighten and become rigid; the openness of his face disappears. And his eyes hold only calculation as he listens to Morston. Analyzing the words, deciding how to react – but not feeling.

It was hard to notice these moments at first, because Spock regained both his memories and his connection to his emotions – his context for emotional regard – very slowly after the fal-tor-pan. Kirk thought he understood, at the time. It made sense that there would be a disconnect. It made sense that Spock would need a chance to remember.

It wasn't so obvious that Spock is just always forgetting.

“Admiral Kirk.”

Jim turns his head. Morston doesn't blink at Spock's address to him. Even Jim has to look closely. Formality is common between them; Spock shifts easily between friendliness and professional reserve even on his best days. But the Vulcan's tone is blank, his intonation carefully polite. Jim's throat goes dry.

“Yes,” he acknowledges wearily.

“I would request that we delay our plans for tomorrow,” Spock explains, referencing their planned outing to a nearby historical museum; Spock has plainly been looking forward to it for weeks, as evidenced by his careful planning of their route and several brief references to their itinerary.

“Of course,” says Kirk flatly.

“Excellent,” Morston says. The Lieutenant-Commander doesn't seem to notice anything. “We'll speak in the morning then, Captain Spock. I think the class will be delighted to have you as a guest.”

Spock tilts his head in acknowledgment and doesn't answer. Morston leaves them.

“And I suppose you don't want to go to the park tonight?” Jim asks.

Spock regards him with mild surprise, as though their previous conversation never happened.

“Is there some reason I should need to go there? A special event or gathering, perhaps?”

“No. No, Spock, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

Spock seems to contemplate his answer. “I believe my time would be spent more profitably on some work at our apartment, Admiral. But I shall certainly consider your suggestion.”

“Yes. I'm sure you will.”

* * *

Ambassador Sarek always dismisses his concerns. Spock is Vulcan, he says. Of course he shows not emotion. Of course he prioritizes his work, and has little need of friends. What else could Kirk expect?

But Jim knows Spock. _Knows_ him. When he calls McCoy, trying to explain the problem in halting terms, the doctor has no advice either.

“I believe you,” McCoy says, face weary and tired over the computer screen. McCoy has never looked so old. “Even the Vulcans don't know everything about that mind-fusion they did, Jim. But sometimes I get these impressions – memories – I gotta wonder if they didn't leave all his feelings locked up in my head.” McCoy sighs. “Maybe he's still adjusting. Or maybe it's the damn Kolinahr...”

“So, he might get better.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think I should talk to the Vulcans? Their healers?”

“They probably wouldn't understand _why_ this is a problem,” says McCoy bitterly. “No. Keep an eye on him. Contact the Vulcans if he seems confused or anything, but... you can't make a man _feel,_ Jim. Even I know that. If he doesn't have the emotions anymore, there's nothing to do about it.”

But he does have emotions, Kirk wants to say. He can see it, sometimes. A brief flick of the eyebrow, sarcastic, exasperated. A slow, drawling fact presented in such a way that no one could _quite_ accuse Spock of making a joke (even when he is, clearly, making a joke). A fond request to share a meal, and discuss day-to-day life.

But those moments seem more and more rare. Or perhaps tit's just Jim, grasping for a happiness that doesn't exist.

In his bones, he understands that McCoy is right. Spock came back different after the fal-tor-pan. But no one knows it like they do. Jim would be laughed from the fleet if he tried to approach a medic with complaints that his Vulcan friend wasn't emotional enough.

What most of the Federation has never understood is that Vulcans _do_ have emotions. They control them, but they exist. Unless the Vulcan in question is a Kolinahr Master – or Spock.

* * *

One day, as they sit together in their apartment, Spock turns to Jim with his head tilted. “I do not understand why we live together,” he says. “It is an inefficient arrangement.”

Jim goes still. He looks up, and finds Spock gazing around the apartment as though he's never seen it before. “How so?” he asks, like his heart isn't breaking.

“The temperature has been adjusted to compromise between our physiologies, and is therefore ideal for neither of our species. I am forced to be quiet at night due to your excessive sleep patterns, and you often leave so I might meditate privately.”

These points are easy to address. “That's what compromise is about, Spock. It's worth it.”

“What benefits do we gain in this arrangement?” asks Spock. He seems genuine.

“Support,” Jim says. “Security. Friendship.”

_Love,_ he does not dare say.

Spock stares at him without comprehension. “I will concede that we support one another,” he says, after a moment in which it seems he will not respond. “Making communal bonds is logical. But I do not see the merits of friendship.”

“Maybe you can't see it,” Jim manages through the pain clotting his throat, “But you know that our friendship has helped us in the past. Has saved our lives – you wouldn't be here today, Spock, if we hadn't stolen the _Enterprise_ for you.”

“An illogical endeavor.”

“And it worked,” Jim snaps. “You understood that before. You just – I know you have a hard time remembering how it felt, Spock. This isn't you. You're just having trouble connecting with your feelings. You're not healthy - do you understand?”

“No,” says Spock. “You claim my lack of emotional connection to you is somehow wrong. Most would argue that this is an ideal state for a Vulcan.”

“Yes. But I don't agree. And you didn't, either. You _refused_ Kolinahr for a reason.”

“You think I have changed,” Spock says.

“You have.”

Spock considers. “I concede that your memories are, in this respect, more trustworthy than my own,” he says simply. To deny it would evidently be illogical. “However, I require more information. Is my behavior unsatisfactory in some way? Am I unfit for service?”

“Your actions are perfectly, flawlessly logical, Mr. Spock.”

Spock tilts his head again. “And this hurts you,” he hazards.

Jim looks at him sharply. But there is no sympathy on Spock's face. “It causes you distress that I should stay here,” Spock adds. “I do not understand this, but it is true.”

“You're right,” Jim manages. “But it would hurt me more if you were to leave – can you understand _that_?”

Spock mulls it over. “I cannot.”

Jim takes a breath. “That's part of the problem,” he explains.

Spock just frowns.

But he stays in that seat beside Jim, and he does not leave.

* * *

For a week – a month – six months – the distance grows. Spock continues to perform his duties admirably. Jim could not ask for a better assistant, sounding-board, advisor or roommate. But he cannot honestly call this version of Spock a friend, much less anything else.

Then, as Jim is reading on the couch one day, Spock walks over and touches his arm. Jim looks up.

“Would you care to join me for a walk?” Spock asks. The corners of his eyes crinkle in what is not, quite, a smile. “It is a pleasant day.”

Jim drops his book. He grabs Spock's arm for support, and has to close his eyes against a sudden sting of tears.

“Jim?” Spock asks. He sits down, carefully holding Jim by the arm. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Jim manages. He opens his eyes and stares at Spock, searching for the blank and robotic creature he's been living with for months. Spock returns his assessment with a furrowed brow, clear concern. “No,” Jim repeats. “I'm fine, Spock. And you'll be fine, too. Let's go for that walk.”

Spock regards him with bewilderment as Jim fetches a jacket. But Jim isn't going to waste any time.

There's no way to guess, after all, how long Spock will be like this.

He has to make every minute count.


End file.
